


James Ryan Haywood

by Tetrisblock



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Kinda, Silly, Walmart adventures, it's entirely silly and dumb, why did I write this, yeah you'll see what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tetrisblock/pseuds/Tetrisblock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, he must go out and buy a fucking toaster at 2:23 am.</p>
<p>--<br/>A look into the life and mind of the Vagabond, the Mad King, James Ryan Haywood.  Sometimes, it's easy to forget this man is human, too.  This proves that he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	James Ryan Haywood

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even remember why I started writing this and I definitely don't know why I continued to. I especially don't know why I made this over 3000 words. What the hell.
> 
> Silly bullshit is my thing, okay. This lines up with my other sillyfic, Toast.
> 
> I promised Rixxy, aka author of Red Baseball Cap, that for every sad thing they wrote, I'd write something happy/silly. I plan on sticking to that promise, one step at the time. This is part of that promise.

The door clicks behind Ryan, his shoulders slumping and an easy breath escaping the man's lips as he rests against it. _Finally, I can get comfortable,_ he assures himself, allowing himself to smile underneath his iconic black skull mask. He peels it off, tossing it onto his gray sheets.

 

His fingers glided across his jaw up to his cheeks, rubbing where the mask left a neat red line.

 

Damn, was that thing inconvenient. He wishes that he didn't start wearing it in the first place – it would have been so much easier to wear a ski mask, or, hell, even a bandanna over his mouth.  _No, the skull mask looks cool, it's not going to be a nuisance at all,_ he reminded him of his reassurances at the time of buying it. 

 

He scratches at the 5 o'clock shadow growing from his chin. Maybe he'll grow it out, grow a small beard like Geoff and Gavin, or maybe something a little more tidy like Ray's even stubble. Why not? His hair is already grown out, the long dirty blonde locks having passed his shoulders a while ago. He unwraps the ponytail holder, only staying in place for a few seconds before the curls spread out behind his shoulders. His hair is probably longer than he thinks because of the waves, so he might borrow Michael's straightener one of these days. It could have interesting results.

 

He stares at the reflection in the floor length mirror that hung on his open closet door. There was a man with white, red, and black face paint that had smeared slightly, long hair flowed behind him. He wore a leather jacket, with blue and white stripes on both sides of his sleeves, a black t-shirt underneath and clean blue jeans. Striking blue eyes examine him closely. If Ryan could send a picture of himself right now to himself a few years before, he wouldn't recognize himself. He thinks about that often. If he had a picture of himself from a few years ago, he wouldn't recognize himself either, to be honest.

 

He grabs a cloth from a drawer in his closet, wiping away the facepaint. He honestly didn't need to wear it, it was more of pain that it was worth, but it has become such a common habit he has to force himself not to do it. He strips himself of his jacket, nicely putting it on a hanger and gently setting it at the end of the closet. He undoes his belt and pulls his shirt loose.

 

He slides into his desk chair, picking a pencil out of the cup and pulling out a leather bound journal. He writes a short entry of what happened that day in neat, cursive letters. He then rewrites that entry, this time in French, then again in Russian.  _Don't forget the languages you took years to learn, dumbass_ , he thinks to himself as he struggles on a particular words. It happens every night, though he always remembers it just as he gives up in frustration, or even hours later, waking himself up, shouting “ _It's fucking mourir, how the fuck did I forget the word mourir, I use that word weekly, sometimes daily_ ,” in his head. Tonight was no different, a few spaces left where he omitted words he had forgotten.

 

_Tap, tap, tap....tap tap tap tap tap._

 

“God damn it,” he murmurs under his breath, slamming the journal shut and hurriedly shoving it back into the drawer. The footsteps were getting closer to his room. Hard soled shoes. “What Geoff?”

 

“I need you for a sec!” the voice of his boss came from the other side of the bedroom door, with a slight cracking in the middle. The man's voice was higher pitched than what Ryan had assumed, the rough exterior of a man who controls an empire of just 6 people (and friends but honestly, the media never remember them and that's better for them anyway) had a voice that cracked and screamed at high frequencies. He screamed often, at the safety of his penthouse, when Michael and Gavin decided they wanted to play horror games. There was a time Ryan suggested getting a pet, a pet snake and Geoff screeched at the thought of a snake being anywhere near his home. The man who wore nice Italian suits and covered in tattoos with a styled handlebar mustache who had millions was afraid of jumpscares and snakes. It amazes Ryan still.

 

“What for?” Ryan leans back in his chair, scooting closer to the door.

 

“Just - just come here, asshole!” Geoff continues, jiggling the doorknob. Ryan means to stand up. However, that doesn't mean that's always how it works. Instead, he finds his front wheels lift off the ground and suddenly he's toppling towards the floor.

 

“Whoa-shit!” he cries as he falls. The chair somehow lands on top of him, his leg tangled around it. The display of Ryan Haywood, the Vagabond, the Mad King – however anyone knows him as – sprawled out of the floor of his bedroom entangled in a desk chair and rubbing the back of his head (' _damn it I hit my head off my nightstand_ ')looks amazing.

 

“Ryan? What the fuck happened du – oh my god, what did you do?” Geoff asks all at once, letting himself in and bursting out in laughter. “Holy shit, where's my phone?” he asks himself through chuckles, patting himself down. He pulls out his iPhone ('j _esus christ, Geoff, you could at least get a better phone_ ' Ryan notes to himself) and snaps a quick picture before Ryan could even object.

 

“Geoff,” Ryan warned, staring daggers at him, but it wasn't quite as affective being as Geoff was towering over him while he was still stuck on the floor, leg wrapped in the chair.

 

Geoff was still giggling away, staring at his phone. He was probably sending it to everyone he knew because look at that, the most terrifying man in the most terrifying gang in Los Santos fell backwards in his own desk chair and made immobile.

 

“ _Geoff,_ ” Ryan repeated, trying to get his leg unstuck from the chair. Geoff simply picked it up, making Ryan look even more like a fool. “I hate you all,” he mumbled, sitting himself up on the floor and crossing his arms across his chest. “What is it,” he stated. Yeah, it was _supposed_ to be a question, but Ryan wasn't in the mood.

 

“I need you to do something,” Geoff states, an easy smile resting on his face now. _Gee, Geoff, isn't that fucking helpful you son of a-_

 

“It's reaaaaally important, please?” Geoff begged, dragging out his words to emphasize. Ryan sighs, side-eyeing him before pushing himself off his hardwood floor.

 

“Fine,” he replies simply, voice heavy and tired. He makes his way of his room, waiting for Geoff to exit before locking it behind them. Geoff leads the way into the living room.

 

“Ryan! I have a really important task for you!” Gavin enthuses, grabbing his sleeve. Ryan looks on incredulously, the television screen taking up all his attention now. _Fuck._

 

“Why is playing Mario Kart so important?” Ryan now looks to Geoff, who's easy smile has grown into a full-on smirk and small giggles.

 

“Oh, you'll see,” Geoff reassured him, shoulders still shaking from giggles. The couch in front of the television was taken up by Michael and Ray, who now scooted to the ends to make room for Ryan. Ryan brushed his bangs out of his eyes, sighing as he took a controller from Michael.

 

“Today, we're going to see if our roommate, Ryan, aka Rye-bread, can have fun,” Gavin said into his phone, obviously recording himself and then pointed it towards the three on the couch. “I don't think he can,” he whispered to it, though, Gavin wasn't the best at whispering so everyone in the room heard. Jack refused to look up into the camera when it was pointed towards him for an 'interview'. “Do you think he can have fun?” Gavin asked the man who sat in the armchair parallel to his own.

 

“Eh, probably not,” he brushed it off, not looking up from his book.

 

Ryan shook his head. _Fucking god damn it, not only am I playing a game where I have no control, but I'm being recorded while doing so._

 

The game went on, no matter how many times he said he didn't want to play it or wished it away. Of course, he had no fucking idea how to play. He swung the wii remote wildly, nearly hitting his fellow players. Ray got 1st nearly every game, Michael right behind him in 2nd. Meanwhile, Ryan was left to the dogs, sometimes barely squeaking into 10th or even 9th place. Ray and Michael laughed as he groaned and yelled at the screen, hitting the wall every turn and getting turned around more than he even suspected himself to. Ray said he sucks, and Ryan didn't deny it because it's true. It just wasn't his game.

 

Gavin resumed his vlog/interview/shitty documentary. “I don't think Ryan likes Mario Kart,” he starts again, turning the phone so Ryan could speak.

 

“I know how to have fun, I'm just really bad at Mario Kart!” he exclaims, his eyebrows and shoulders high.

 

“Oh, I get it, I get it! You're a bloody bad sport!” Gavin declared, the false lightbulb of whatever-the-fuck going off in his head. Ryan frowns.

 

“I'm not a bad sport! Okay, maybe I am, but-” he tries to explain.

 

“That's all the time we have! The discovery of the day is Ryan is a clumsy bad sport!” Gavin concludes his video. “That's goin' up on youtube,” he nods, confident in the work captured by his iPhone.

 

“Okay, I'm done? Am I free? Good, okay, bye,” Ryan excuses himself, already on his way back to the sanctuary of his room. No one tried to stop him, thank god.

 

Ryan leans against his door once more, rubbing at his tired eyes. He needed to sleep. He slipped on a pair of gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt. He could of honestly slept in his clothes, but he figured he could just wear them again tomorrow. No one would notice, or care.

 

He flopped belly-down on his bed, rolling onto his back so he cocooned himself. It was a childish thing to do, but hey, it works and it's comfortable. Michael sleeps naked, Gavin more often than not sleeps at his desktop, Ray sleeps with 5 blankets and a sea of pillows, including a pillow pet. Hell, even Geoff has a habit of sleeping only in his underwear and halfway off his bed, sideways. Jack...Jack was a typical sleeper.

 

Ryan didn't remember even closing his eyes, but he was already drifting off into a dream where the land was made out of breakfast foods. It looked delicious.

 

Ryan's eyes flutter open at 2:18 am. He doesn't know why, but his brain decided it wanted to be awake. All he knows is that he's kinda hungry right now.

 

“Mmm, toast,” he mutters out loud, unwrapping himself from his blanket burrito to get up and stretch. He spread his arms out, tilting, twisting, shaking out the aches from his back.

 

He stands, tiptoeing to the door and opening it as silently as possible. Everyone should be asleep, and he wanted toast right now. He cringes at the creaking door, but honestly, everyone around here sleep like...something that doesn't wake up easily. Whatever that is. It's too damn early to think. The door opens just enough to squeeze past and he shuts it quickly, tiptoeing to the kitchen. The television or light isn't on, so no one is in the kitchen or living room. He feels around for the toaster – wait.

 

“Fuck! Geoff never bought a toaster!” He curses to himself, frowning at the discovery. “Who doesn't have a toaster?”

 

There was only one thing he could do. He skitters towards the shoes and grabs his sneakers, shoving them on without tying them. He was on a mission, he didn't have time for any of that.

 

He sneaks out the front door, speeding down the hallway to the elevator. Yes, he must go out and buy a fucking toaster at 2:23 am.

 

Two stores and an aggravated yelling fit in the parking lot, he gathers his senses and drives calmly to the store he should have gone to in the first place.

 

“It's fucking 2:48 am now and I'm driving to Walmart to buy a toaster for my boss's penthouse that I wasn't really invited to stay in but now fully moved into a room there. This is _exactly_ what I thought I'd be doing with my life,” Ryan grumbles sarcastically to no one as he focuses straight ahead into the corporate giant's parking lot. “Shit, my hair's probably a mess,” he curses, fumbling around in the dark for a comb or brush of any kind and pulling down the visor. Thank god for lighted visors, now. He hurriedly brushes his long locks just enough where it isn't everywhere it shouldn't be and slams the visor back up in it's place.

 

“Hello, welcome to Walmart,” an older woman greeted with the vigor he'd expect of the place. In other words, she looked like she'd rather keel over than greet another dipshit at the door.

 

“Thanks,” he mimicked the same tone, not in the mood to pretend he was glad to be there at nearly 3 am.

 

He was a man on a mission, so he hastily made his way over to the kitchen appliances.

 

“Blender, blender, blender, microwave....” he utters, going down the line of appliances he didn't need. “Aha! Toaster!”

He didn't even bother to check how much it was or what brand it was. Who needs to look at brands of toasters? It's a fucking _toaster_. He didn't care if it was high-tech, had 18 unnecessary buttons, and could build a god damn space shuttle, he just wanted some toast.

 

He trekked to the cash register as quickly as he could, finding some young kid who looked like he hadn't slept in years behind it.

 

“Why,” it wasn't really a question and more of a monotone droning.

 

“Because I wanted to make toast?” Ryan shot back. It's too early to deal with questions. All questions are answered with sass between the times of 11 pm to 5 am, that's the rule for Ryan.

 

“That's fair,” the kid shrugs, ringing up the toaster and tossing it into a bag. Ryan digs out his wallet, paying $20 and some change. _Jeez, why are they this expensive?_

 

“Yeah. Bye,” he replied back, shuffling towards the bag and taking off before the kid could sneak in any other conversation.

 

By 3:12 am, he was back in the penthouse. He had all but forgotten not to slam the front door, though, he didn't even hear anyone wake up because of it. He unsheathes the toaster from it's cardboard box and immediately plugs it in. He prepares himself two pieces of toast and grabs out the small container of margarine. The toaster warms up at mock speed, but his toast is soon gently placed into the slots.

 

He hears a bedroom door open. _Shit, maybe I did wake someone? Whatever, what's done is done but at least I'll have toasty bread. Oooh, I can toast bagels now too!_

 

Ray shuffles his way through the living room, only to jump about 3 feet in the air and screeching when the toaster goes off. It was the most adorable sound Ryan has probably ever heard, to be honest. It was a high-pitched 'eek!' and it nearly made him squeaked and drop the butter knife in his hand. Ryan was _almost_ scared of the sound of Ray being scared. Almost.

 

“Oh my god, Ray, I'm so sorry!” Ryan quickly apologizes, but can't help himself from chuckling.

 

“What the _fuck_ , Ryan,” Ray demands, trying to whisper-shout. His hand lies subconsciously over his chest, his heart obviously still pounding.

 

“I didn't mean to scare you!” Ryan tried to explain in the midst of giggling. He butters his pieces of toast, gently arranging them on a plate.

 

“ _It never fucking happened_ ,” Ray insists, gritting his teeth. “ _It. Never. Happened._ ” he repeated, stagnating his words. Then, he turns on his heel, crossing his arms over his chest and shuffling his feet towards the bathroom.

 

“Okay, okay,” Ryan agreed, a chuckle still in his throat. He turned his back on the living room, leaning up against the counter with his plate in one hand and a fresh, toasted piece of buttered perfection in the other. He takes large bites, chomping down and savoring the taste. Toast is good. Not as good as it sounded, but good.

“Wait, we don't have a toaster,” Ray mentions, sitting down on the other side of counter. Ryan chokes on the piece of toast, nearly spitting out the last bit of the first piece. He swallows and clears his throat. “Oh, did I scare you, douchebag?”

 

“Douchebag? What'd I do?” he turns, setting down his plate and leaning his elbows against the counter. “Oh, and I bought one.”

 

“You are rightfully deserving of the Douchebag Title™, and when? You didn't even go out today,” Ray answers, an eyebrow raised.

 

“That doesn't answer my question, and technically, yes, I _did_ go out _today._ Yesterday, however, I didn't. I just got back not that long ago.”

 

“You almost scared the piss out of me, literally. Also, shut the hell up, you knew what I meant. Finally, are you fucking serious?”

 

“Okay, that's acceptable. No, I won't shut up because you're still asking me questions, and yes, seriously. I just got back from Walmart at 3:20.”

 

“You're such a fucking smartass, Jesus Christ,” Ray mutters, looking down and shaking his head. “Why?”

 

“Because I wanted toast! Why does everyone want to know why I went out and bought a toaster? It's so I can fucking make toast!” Ryan exasperated, throwing his hands up and putting his hands on his hips.

 

“Bro, haven't you heard of sleeping? It's this thing where you close your eyes at, you know,  _night_ . Because normal people sleep at  _night._ They usually don't go out in the middle of the night and buy toasters.”

 

“Yeah, I guess you're right? I just wanted some toast. I had a really awesome dream where I was in a world made out of breakfast food and my house was made out of toast.”

 

“You too? Mine was made out of bagels.”

 

“Mmmn, bagels.”

 

“Scoot, I'm going to toast myself a bagel,” Ray commanded, scooting out his stool and hip-bumping him out of the way of the toaster. The both giggled away into the night, like they weren't criminals but normal people who just wanted some toasted breakfast foods at 3:42 am.

 


End file.
